


Winter Break

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Harry/Clara - Freeform, Holiday, Irene/Kate - Freeform, M/M, Med Student John, Molly/Greg, Unilock, balletlock, do not let the character list fool you, there is only room for one ship in this ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."</p><p>Miscommunication, misunderstandings and near-misses oh my!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His John

They were a miss-match from the start. John Watson neat and organized. Just a few scattered belongings relegated to his half of the dormitory. His father’s military influence in every pleated sheet and trouser. John kept his showers short, his food labeled and his music low.

Sherlock Holmes, however, lacked any understanding of personal space or common decency. Sherlock Holmes practiced violin until sunrise. And he wasn’t a member of the school’s orchestra or a local band. John had asked.

“It helps me think,” was all the tall pale boy with piercing grey eyes offered before closing his bedroom door in John’s face. John bought earplugs the following morning and picked up extra shifts at the cafe when Sherlock seemed to be in a thinking mood.

The other habits were a bit harder to handle.

As far as he could tell, Sherlock was a spoiled posh twit. Like so many students whose parents had bribed their way into the best schools in London, Sherlock did not attend regular classes. He had no set schedule that John could discern. Other than cigarette breaks between thinking sessions and his nightly soirees with a rotating group of arm candy. John had never seen Sherlock open a book. He spent his hours draped on their sofa in the common room, texting. _Arranging dates_ , John imagined.

* * *

 

Sherlock listened for the sound of John fumbling his keys in the hall. It was two hours since his shift ended at the cafe, over an hour since the blond boy was due to return. The shuffle of plastic bags told him John had done the shopping. He stopped texting a moment to roll over and listen, making sure his roommate did not need assistance. John sighed, then the lock disengaged. Sherlock rolled back over, burying his face in the cushion and feigning sleep.

“You could help, you know,” John spoke to his back, dropping bags to the table with a bit more force than necessary. He crossed back to the entrance, toeing his shoes off and hanging his coat and scarf.

Sherlock pretended to yawn and stretch. Rolling over with droopy eyes and a mumbled, “Hmm?”

“The shopping, Sherlock. If you’re not too busy?” John was snippy, looking for a fight. But Sherlock refused to give him one.

He crossed to the kitchen and began unpacking without another word. Taking care to fetch cash for his half of the shopping and leave it beside the receipt. Sherlock had initially offered to cover all of their costs in return for John doing the actual shopping, but he refused. Insisting that Sherlock only pay for what he used and half of anything shared. No more, no less.

“Thank you,” John smiled in thanks and left to have a shower. Sherlock was amazed how quickly John could turn that off, tamping the rage back to a simmer. He wondered if the boy would ever boil over.

Sherlock stared at the closed door long after the shower taps turned on. Listening to the soft sounds of John humming. Classic rock was his forte, tonight’s selection a mashup of Queen and AC/DC.

Sherlock’s phone chimed, interrupting the reverie. “Tedious,” he mumbled, fetching the device from his pocket.

**8pm u free?**

_8:15 -SH_

**ok c u soon~!**

* * *

 

John woke with a start. Someone was giggling in his sitting room. Throwing a dressing gown over his pants, he stumbled out to investigate.

“Oh, John, you’re up,” Sherlock was sat in his chair, blowing smoke through the open window. He was dressed in snug dark denim and a black silk shirt open in a deep vee. His dark curls tousled and glowing in the dim lamplight. John would have appreciated waking to that sight alone, if not for the pretty young redhead sat on their sofa. Tittering on about an inside joke with someone named Sally. Her silver sequined miniskirt showing off every inch of her long, long legs.

“Not by choice,” John grumbled, going to the kitchen to set the kettle. If he was going to be up, he may as well get some studying in.

Sherlock cleared his throat, a series of hushed whispers from the sitting room, and then, “So, ahem, Molly, perhaps it’s best you leave, yes?”

“But I thought we--”

“No,” Sherlock cut her off, sending a glare John couldn’t help but notice as he turned to fetch his mug.

“Fine, but you owe me,” Molly stuck her tongue out. All petulance and childish charm as she stormed off into the night.

Sherlock turned to John, apology on his tongue only to find a frown of disapproval.

“Shouldn’t you walk your date home at this hour?” John crossed his arms, right foot tapping in annoyance.

“Ah..” Sherlock didn’t know where to begin correcting John’s incorrect assumptions, so he just nodded and stamped out his cigarette. “Quite right. Be right back.”

* * *

 

A week later John returned from his Biology lecture to find a different girl on the sitting room sofa. Tall, brunette, perfect lips in ruby red and expertly winged eyeliner. She seemed to be poured into a small white dress, curves busting at every seam. He had to force his eyes elsewhere for fear of drooling.

“Oh, umm, hello,” John stammered out, making sure his shoes were aligned just so and his jacket was properly hung. “Is Sherlock around?”

“He went out for a bit,” she answered. “Said he would be back, but Heaven knows how long that will be.” The girl smiled and stood, crossing the room to offer her hand. “You must be his John. My name is Irene, Irene Adler. So nice to finally meet you.”

“John, yes, John Watson,” he shook her hand nervously then pulled back, “wait, _his_ John? What do you mean his John?”

“Oh my poor sweet boy, do you not--”

“Irene!” Sherlock burst through the door knocking John aside in his rush to stand between them, “You’re needed outside.”

“But--”

“Now.”

Irene gave John one last look over then smiled and winked. “Ta, John Watson. I’ll see you around.”

“Yes, goodbye,” Sherlock grabbed the girl by her arm and slammed the door behind them. A stunned John frozen in the front hall, staring at his toppled line of shoes.


	2. Poor Little Rich Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing John wanted after an eight hour shift was a stroppy roommate

“I cannot make an exception for you.”

“But you already gave your word, Philip. You know how important this--”

“Professor Anderson, please.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window. The courtyard was full of students, most leaving campus to go out for the weekend. All with one shared end goal. Most days he felt nothing but pity for the simple-minded, wiling away their youth on sex and addictive substances. But at night, when he was left alone to his thoughts, he envied them.

“Sherlock, we’ve been over this,” Anderson’s voice interrupted, “I know it’s weird for you, we practically grew up together. But in a professional environment, where I am your superior--”

Sherlock scoffed, poorly disguising it beneath a coughing fit.

“That. That right there is why I’m cutting off your preferential treatment. You disrespect me as your professor and it’s not right. I don’t care who your father is or what your brother may do.”

“But you know I’m not asking this of you to be special. The Holmes name is the only thing I’ve kept of my heritage. Please, I’ve got a prior engagement scheduled that day and--”

“Reschedule it or I will revoke your lab access after hours.”

“Fine,” Sherlock’s shoulders fell in defeat and he turned. “Thank you for your time.. _Professor_.”

* * *

 

The last thing John wanted after an eight hour shift was a stroppy roommate. But there was no helping it. Sherlock was in a pout, pacing the sitting room over the dangerously threadbare groove of their carpet, and John needed to use the kitchen. “Come, sit,” he said, setting two mugs of tea to the table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but joined him just the same. “I’m fine. You don’t need to mother me.”

“Then I won’t,” John sat back, looking over his Chem notes from the morning.

“It’s Anderson,” Sherlock sighed, hands seeking the warmth of a steamy mug to calm him.

“Professor Anderson?” John asked, a bit confused how the boy who never attended a single class even knew a professor.

“Yes, he’s horrid and an idiot and a waste of university funding not to mention oxygen.”

“Ah,” John set his notes aside to give Sherlock his full attention.

“He says I must attend the final exam, no exceptions.”

“So you have him for class then?”

“Of course! I’m not socializing with the man for my well being. Do keep up John.”

“Sorry, just you..” John trailed off, scalding his tongue in an effort to keep quiet.

Of course, this did nothing to impede Sherlock’s curiosity. “I just.. what?”

“You know.”

“No, rare occasion as it is, I do not.”

John considered his words carefully. “I was unsure.. whether you attended classes or not.”

“Whether I.. What? Why else would I attend university?”

“Plenty of people get sent away to school, Sherlock. Especially people like..” his words lost to another sip of tea.

“People like… what, John?”  Sherlock set his own mug down and leaned across the table, waiting.

John swallowed the burning liquid and looked away, “People like you.”

“There aren’t people like me,” Sherlock snapped, his tone bitter and resentful.

“No, of course not. I meant--” John looked up at the man sat across from him and knew he spoke the truth. Sherlock was extraordinary. Rich brat or no, he was uniquely beautiful. His clothing was impeccably tailored but his hair was in a constant state of disarray. And despite his revolving door of lady callers, Sherlock keep mostly to himself. John imagined it was hard for someone like him to maintain deep friendships. Due mostly, if not wholly, to his unnerving talent for reading others.

Sherlock waited, his face set in stone, unreadable.

“I just meant, people who were.. well off.”

“So you.. assumed I didn’t attend classes because I am rich?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did you think I do all day?”

“Sleep and texting mostly. All those girls? Until you go out at night I guess,” John shrugged, but he felt like suffocating. A panic bubbling up from inside.

“Ah,” Sherlock scowled a moment before his mask was back. He stood and walked to his bedroom, stopping to call back over his shoulder. “Good night, John. Thank you for the tea.”

John sat for the next hour, staring blankly into his mug for an answer. He’d known the thought was rude but it was too late. Words like bullets, cannot be taken back.

* * *

 

“I’m going to class now,” Sherlock announced his departure, loud enough for the entire hall to hear.

John flinched at the slamming door, his forehead coming to rest on the cool tile of the shower. A shiver snaking its way up his spine despite the hot stream. It had been two weeks of this. Sherlock’s own brand of petulant revenge.

The dormitory was dead silent now, save for slammed doors and cold shoulders.

“I don’t know how much longer I can take this, Mike.” John cradled his phone with his shoulder, stuffing books into his bag and checking his apron and nametag were packed.

“Mate, you’ve got to apologize.”

“But I don’t even know where to start--”

“Sorry works for most people.”

“Yeah, but he’s not most people now is he?”

“Worth a try.”

John sighed and slung his bag round his shoulder, checking the door was locked before heading downstairs. “You’re probably right. I’m closing tonight, so I’ll see you later?”

“Sure thing, I’ll pop in for my usual round eight. Good luck!”

“Thanks,” John hung up and headed to class. With just one month left until the end of the semester, he had enough on his plate already. Sherlock’s issues were going to have to wait.


	3. What I Owe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t owe them anything! You’ve done this all on your own, love. You know that.”

“Six forty-five, sir.”

“I, okay, just one moment,” John dug through his pockets for loose change. Counting up coins, he frowned, “How much without the chips?”

The sales clerk sighed, unceremoniously lifting and dropping the order of chips to the bin with a loud thunk that hurt John’s heart. “Five eighty-five.”

John handed over all the money he had, taking his tray and receipt, and with a heavy sigh dropping his change to the donation jar. He took a table in the back of the cafeteria where he could stare out the big glass window and let his mind rest for a few minutes. After three strenuous hours of Biology cramming he was feeling drained and in need of a break.

“John? John Watson?” a young blonde girl waved at him from across the room.

John squinted, unsure if he was supposed to know who she was. He smiled and returned her waving, just in case exhaustion had erased her from his memory. _Oops_ , he thought, watching in regret as she made her way over.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Sure,” John gave a quick smile, offering the empty seat across from him.

“You look confused, let me help. My name is Mary and we have Journalism together.”

“Oh,” John was still lost. But Journalism was his eight a.m. Friday course. One he usually attended on less than three hours of sleep having worked the night before.

“It’s okay,” Mary said, waving off his blank stare and taking the seat beside him. “You look pretty tired in class, busy schedule?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” John smiled.

“Anyway,” Mary continued on, “Not a wholly social call. A few weeks ago you fell asleep during lecture and I covered for you. When you woke up you said you owed me and that if I ever need help in Biology, to let you know.”

John vaguely remembered falling asleep in class the day after his fight with Sherlock. The rest was a blur. “Well, I am a man of my word,” he shrugged.

“Perfect.” Mary leaned in closer, pulling a sheet from his notebook to write her number.

* * *

 

“What do you mean you won’t be coming for Christmas?” John yelled across his room. His sister’s muffled voice crackling through the speakerphone as he rooted through his closet for his favorite jumper.

“I… … … Clara… … sorry Johnny.”

“Sorry? Sorry?!” John snatched the phone from his desk and switched speaker off. “Harry, I need you there.”

“Clara wants me to meet her family, it’s kind of a big deal. I thought you of all people would be happy for me.”

“I am, really. I’m happy you’ve met someone who cares about you, Harry. I just.. I need you. It’s been a stressful semester. My roommate hates me, and I‘m probably failing half the classes I’m working my arse off to pay for.”

Harry considered John’s words a while then snapped her fingers with an idea, “Don’t go. Johnny, you don’t have to go. Just don’t go. Why don’t you take the train up to York after finals, grab a hotel and spend time with us?”

John considered it a moment then frowned, “No. I can’t. Thank you but I can’t.”

“You don’t owe them anything! You’ve done this all on your own, love. You know that.”

“I know, Harry, it’s not that. I just… they’re the only family we have left, you know? Besides, I don’t think I can afford a hotel on my wages.”

“You can sleep on the couch then! I’ll ask Clara’s parents and--”

“No, no, don’t. You don’t.. listen. Harry, I love you and thank you. But no. This is your holiday alone with Clara. I’ll be fine.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

* * *

 

“Sherlock?” John paced just outside his roommate’s door, waiting. He wiped sweaty palms on the fronts of his jeans, clenching and unclenching the nerves from his shaking hands. After his talk with Harriet he’d decided two things:

First, if he was going to pass his finals, he needed to remove excess stress from his life. Which lead to number two, Sherlock Holmes was overdue an apology.

“Sherlock, please?” John stopped pacing and slumped against the wall opposite, talking to the closed door. “Listen, I don’t know if you can hear me but I owe you an apology. So you’re going to get one whether you like it or not.” John nodded to himself and cleared his throat.

“When we first met, I..” John trailed off. The first day they’d met he was smitten. There was no other word for it. Sherlock had come in all loose curls and tight tees. His sparkling eyes over an even more brilliant smile. John practically had their first meeting running on repeat for weeks as the opening to a particularly naughty series of dreams. “..I liked you. I thought we could be good friends. I’m not sure what happened..” John knew what happened. The three a.m. violin happened. And the smoking. And the women. “.. and I was hoping, maybe, we could start fresh? Really get to know each other rather than hating each other based on assumption. What do you say? Get to know me before you hate me? And I’ll afford you the same courtesy, yeah?”

After a long pause, there was still no reply. John hung his head and sighed. “Well, at least it was a successful dress rehearsal,” he returned to his own room. Falling face first to his pillow to scream.

“John?”

The blond jumped up with a shriek, “Jesus! Sherlock. Did you--”

“I heard you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Sherlock hovered in John’s doorway a moment before taking a deep breath and stepping forward. Hand out, grinning, “Good evening, the name’s Sherlock Holmes. Chemistry major, Dorm B, room 221. And you are?”

John stood and stepped forward, taking Sherlock’s palm in his own. Warmth pooling in his chest, he couldn’t fight the grin that broke free. “John, John Watson. Pre-med, Dorm B, also room 221. Pleasure to meet you.”


	4. Useless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m happy for you, I am, but are you sure he’s not.. you know..”
> 
> “Straight? Yes, the possibility had crossed my mind.”

“And you, what, just shook hands and pretended the last two months never happened?”

“Yeah,” John shrugged, setting a toasted croissant before Mike on the countertop, “is that weird?”

“For Sherlock, no.”

“Right, I keep forgetting you know him.”

“Knew. I haven’t seen the guy since primary school. But from what you’ve told me, he’s as antisocial as I remember. Though it sounds like you’ve hit it off, so maybe he’s learned how to make friends afterall.”

“Maybe,” John sighed a bit wistfully, mind going to the sort of friends Sherlock was skilled at collecting. Kicking himself for always falling for straight guys. “Anyway,” he shook the thought clear, “caramel latte again or something more seasonal?”

“Oh, it is December isn’t it? Snuck up on us,” Mike laughed then looked the menu over. “Got that minty chocolatey thing from last year?”

“Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino, yes. Whip or--”

“Double, of course.”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

“Is that it? You just shook hands?” Molly arched her back into a cat’s pose, pushing until every joint was popped loose. She rolled over, feet pressed together and bent forward, arms outstretched towards the mirrored wall.

“Don’t mock me Hooper, it was a big step.”

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes touched a boy instead of staring at him from across the room. Congratulations. When should I arrange the parade?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m happy for you, I am, but are you sure he’s not.. you know..”

“Straight? Yes, the possibility had crossed my mind,” Sherlock rolled up his mat, securing it to his bag.

“Would be a shame,” Molly sat back and sighed dramatically. “After you gave him your handshake cherry-- ow!” A flash of black satin bounced off her head and settled beneath the barre with a soft plop.

“Why do I tell you anything?”

Molly stuck her tongue out and hopped up to start the music, “Because I’m the best and you love me.” Sherlock’s second shoe flew past her shoulder.

* * *

 

“Have you tried just.. asking him?”

“Oh, right, brilliant plan, Mike. And how do you imagine that conversation going?” John laughed, cleaning up spilled foam and donut crumbs from the front row of tables. The cafe had emptied save for a few students studying in the back. “Besides, I’ve seen the women he pulls. Gorgeous lot.”

Mike slipped from his stool and followed his friend around as he cleaned, carrying on their conversation in hushed whispers. “I’m just saying, what if.. I mean, he could be like you, you know. Blokes and birds.”

John jerked back and looked around to make sure no one had heard. He wasn’t exactly out as bisexual yet. Harry and Mike the only two who knew. “Alright, keep your voice down.”

“I was whispering!” Mike insisted.

John returned to the serving station, Mike on his heels, waiting for a reply. John took his time washing his hands, adjusting the tie of his apron. He fiddled with the loose edge of his name tag before finally looking back up, “I guess it’s not.. impossible?”

“There’s the spirit!” Mike cheered before clamping a hand over his mouth. He dropped his voice back to a whisper as all three patrons looked up in surprise. “Just ask him,” he mumbled through the fingers over his lips.

“Nah, mate. It’s okay like this, really. I’ve got no time to date anyone right now anyway. And even if I had the time, I don’t have the money. What could I even offer someone like Sherlock?”

“John--”

“No, it’s probably best if I just.. quietly pine from afar,” John fluttered his eyelashes dramatically, hand to his brow.

“You’re useless,” Mike laughed, throwing a balled up napkin at his face.

John shrugged, scooping to pick up and bin the paper projectile. He whistled to himself, letting Mike’s words sink in as he restocked the counter’s supply of milk and sweeteners. Useless, yes, but hopeful.

* * *

 

“Irene, tell him. Tell him he’s being an idiot,” Molly ribbed the brunette with her elbow, nodding in Sherlock’s direction as he adjusted his stance in the mirror.

“Our mad genius is being an idiot? What has he done now?”

“He’s settling for a handshake.”

“What?”

“With his John.”

“Oh!”

Irene jumped up in glee, spinning with a flourish and landing just behind Sherlock. She settled a hand to his shoulder and leaned her chin to rest in the divot. Sherlock looked up, grim scowl on his face as he found her eyes in the reflection.

“Whatever Molly told you, I can assure it was greatly exaggerated.”

“Oh, so you haven’t held hands with your dream boy?”

Sherlock blushed and dropped his stare, shrugging Irene’s weight off with a quick side step so that she lost her balance. “Piss off, both of you. I’ve suddenly remembered why I don’t have friends.”

Irene placed a hand over her heart and leaned across the barre in a dramatic faint, “I have never.. been so offended in all my life, and here I thought we were the best of pals.” Molly giggled behind them, knelt to the mat packing her bag.

“I think he has a girlfriend now anyway, so, it doesn’t matter,” Sherlock muttered the words so softly, Irene was unsure she’d heard them.

Thankfully, Molly had the ears of a bat. “He what?!” She jumped up, spinning Sherlock around. Both women crowding him against the mirror, a pair of tapping feet and crossed arms.

Sherlock looked up, panicked. “Nothing, just, let me go,” he slipped out in the space between them, grabbing his bag from the floor and sprinting for the changing rooms.

“Sherlock Holmes, you come back here this instant!” Molly yelled, giving chase.

“Don’t think we won’t follow you in the Gents!” Irene shouted after he turned the corner.

* * *

 

John watched the last few guests packing their bags, keeping one eye on the clock. He never liked kicking anyone out if they were studying. But he had his own assignments to go over. A pair of them waved goodbye to their friend, a tall young blonde man who was taking a bit longer to gather his things.

“Good evening,” John called out to his departing customers. He untied his apron and gave the cafe one last glance as he waited for the final student to leave.

“John was it?” the voice made John jump, clutching the countertop to still his racing heart.

“Umm, yes. Did you need something? The machines are all turned off but--”

“No, nothing like that,” the young man gave a dismissive wave then paused, mulling something over before he continued. “Listen, I know this seems terribly rude of me, but I couldn’t help overhearing earlier. When your friend was here?”

John stiffened, unsure where this conversation was headed, “Yes?”

“Your roommate, Sherlock. Is that Sherlock Holmes? Tall, rail thin brunette, messy curls and cold grey eyes?”

“Might be. Why do you ask?” John could feel himself growing protective and jealous.

“He’s not straight,” the boy said with a smirk, “trust me.” And with that he grabbed his bag and left. The jingle of the cafe bell echoing in John’s skull as he stood frozen in time.


	5. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tomorrow afternoon, you need to make sure you’re in the shower when he gets home from class."

“You know his schedule, right?” Irene followed Sherlock up the pavement back to his dormitory.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock had committed John’s hectic comings and goings to memory ages ago. It was the best way to assure he kept his own activities secreted. And his plan had worked, if not a bit too well.

“Well when do you see him again?”

“He works tonight, then class in the morning. Then he’s free in the afternoon, assuming he hasn’t made any prior engagement.”

“Okay,” Irene dropped her voice conspiratorially as they passed a group of students. “Then tomorrow afternoon, you need to make sure you’re in the shower when he gets home from class.”

“What?” Sherlock stopped walking to deliver the full force of his bewilderment. “How is that going to help--”

“Let me finish,” Irene paused to make sure Sherlock wasn’t going to interrupt again. “When you hear him come inside, you’re going to step out in nothing but a towel. His reaction will tell you everything you need to know.”

Sherlock considered the plan. Though he appreciated the simplicity of deducing John’s sexuality and interest from a controlled scenario, the method still left him vulnerable and quite literally naked. “That sounds like a terrible idea,” he decided.

“Just trust me, it’s going to work.”

“I don’t--”

“Sherlock,” Irene placed a hand at his elbow, leveling him with her serious face. The one she pulled out when she knows she’s right and is just waiting for the other party to come around. “How do you think I got Kate?”

Sherlock broke out in a smile, “Treacherous minx.”

“Oh I quite like that. Might have to get it embroidered on a pillow,” Irene winked and pecked Sherlock on the cheek. “Now go, get some rest, you have a big day tomorrow.”

* * *

 

 John woke from a dreamless sleep and dragged himself to class. He barely registered getting dressed, eating breakfast, packing his bag. One minute he was walking up the pavement, the next he was trying to decipher Mrs. Donovan’s handwriting into legible notes for exams. At some point, class ended and he left for home and, hopefully, more sleep.

“John?” someone was following him. He turned to find the blonde girl from before.

“Mary,” John greeted, trying to hide his frown. He’d forgotten about her tutoring again. “Is it that time already?”

“Yes, sorry, I know you’re busy. Promise today will be shorter,” she apologized, skipping over to link an arm at John’s elbow and walk beside him.

“Oh,” John looked down at where Mary had grabbed him, shrugging himself loose from the grip under the pretense of adjusting the bag on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure of her intentions, but he’d rather not send mixed signals.

* * *

 

Sherlock stepped from the shower but left the water running. Toweling his hands dry, he checked the time on his phone. John was due back any minute. Sherlock ruffled the towel through his hair then slung it low on his hips and pressed his ear to the door.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Yeah, no I get it,” John was speaking to someone in the hall as he removed his coat and shoes. Sherlock leaned closer, holding his breath to hear every word.

Someone sighed. A high voice, female. Though she sounded a bit further away.

“But it’s family in the end, so we have to tolerate them yeah? At least this time of year.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the girl answered.

John’s voice grew mumbled as he walked across the flat to put the kettle on. Sherlock couldn’t hear the woman speaking any longer so he pressed himself flush to the door as if he could detect more dialogue from his palms or belly.

“Harry,” John spoke again though the rest of his sentence was muted.

 _He has his sister on speaker again_ , Sherlock reasoned, his body visibly relaxing. He waited a moment longer, but hearing no more speaking, decided it was time and turned the shower off. A deep calming breath, one last look in the mirror and Sherlock stepped out.

“Oh, Sher--” John lost the rest of his name in a gasp. He stood frozen, kettle in hand, hovering over two mugs on the dining table. His body was immobile save for a forced swallow. And his eyes. John’s eyes were roaming wild on their own. Drinking in every inch of exposed skin. Holding a long while at the jut of hipbone struggling to hold up Sherlock’s towel. John tried to speak again but his mouth had gone dry, his tongue poking out to lick at chapped lips.

“John,” Sherlock smirked, he’d gathered all the intel he needed in that hungry stare, “I didn’t hear you come home.”

John’s head snapped up at his name. The spell broken. He cleared his throat and set the kettle down, tea bags abandoned in empty mugs as he walked past Sherlock to their sitting room. Stood between his half naked flatmate and the young blonde woman sat on their sofa, poorly disguising her giggles beneath a coughing fit.

“Mary, Sherlock. Sherlock, Mary,” John gestured between them, unable to look Sherlock in the eye.

“Oh,” Sherlock’s face fell, reaching down to clutch his towel a bit tighter. “Pardon me, I’ll just.. umm.. excuse me.” He rushed to his bedroom and slammed the door. His heart beating dangerously fast as he fell face first to his bed. The soft pillow soaking up his silent scream. _Stupidstupidstupidstupid_.

“I’m sorry, my flatmate is.. unique,” John tried to apologize but he really didn’t think Sherlock had done anything wrong. If anything, he wanted to scold Mary for giggling at the man’s expense, ask her to leave and go to comfort him. But a slammed door was usually a clear sign that Sherlock wanted to be left alone, so he pressed on with the tutoring. Hoping diagrams of diseased anatomy would help him forget Sherlock’s flawless anatomy.

“It’s quite alright,” Mary wiped tears from her eyes, fanning the blush from her cheeks as the giggles died down. “Shall I fetch our tea?”

“Oh!” John jumped up. “No no, you’re our guest.”

“Ever the gentleman,” Mary smiled, accepting her mug as John settled to his chair across from the sofa.

For a half hour, all was peaceful. Mary taking notes as John carefully explained her assignment. He assumed Sherlock had either fallen asleep or was waiting for Mary to leave before coming back out of his room.

Then the violin began. Loud, screechy disjointed sounds. It sounded like a wailing ghost haunting the entire dormitory with its cry of despair. But before John could get properly upset, it stopped.

“Someone’s a drama queen,” Mary said with an eyeroll. She went back to taking notes.

John stared at her, confused why his first instinct was to defend his roommate when the disturbance had annoyed them both. He shrugged it off, flipping her books back open to recover his place. “Last chapter, then you should be ready for exams next week, I think.”

“Oh? Are we nearly finished already?” Mary pouted then stood to stretch, making a big show of yawning and popping joints.

John almost laughed. He knew what she was doing, he’d done the same thing himself back when he had room for flirting and dating in his life. “Yeah, just a few more pages and we’re done,” he said, emphasizing the last word.

Mary frowned further, crossing the room to sit on the arm of John’s chair. “What if..” she began, dancing painted red nails up John’s arm, to pinch his cheek, “I don’t want us to be.. done?”

“Pardon the interruption,” a deep voice boomed from behind and John flinched back from Mary’s touch to find Sherlock stood in the front hall. For a moment John was supremely disappointed to find the towel had been replaced by trousers and a button up. Sherlock’s mouth was a thin line, a forced smile through which he rushed prepared words, “I just wanted to inform you that I will be gone for the evening, so you will have the place to yourself. Should you and your.. guest need it. Goodbye.”

John stood to reply, to correct the misunderstanding, but Sherlock moved too quickly. Slipping his coat and gloves on and rushing outside. This time he didn’t slam the door. And for some reason that felt worse.


	6. I Hate You Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was in a proper huff. No chance of getting any work done that evening as he paced the Chemistry lab and stared at the couple sat before him. Two aresholes pulling far too much entertainment from his slow death.

John was lost. Wiping a damp rag in circles on the countertop while his mind wandered off to last night’s dream.

Sherlock, naked save for a small hand towel, and every last curve of muscle saved in John’s memory. Stood behind him, the customer from before. A blond smirking demon whom assured John that he’d known Sherlock, intimately. His fingers were clenched into Sherlock’s milky skin, every touch making John’s blood boil. His lips were kissing where John wanted his own. John tried to move forward, to reach out. But chains at his ankles held him back. He tried to turn away only to find himself surrounded by a wall of mirrors. Twenty apparitions jeering him into a jealous rage until he woke, screaming Sherlock’s name. Thankful his roommate had kept good on his promise to stay elsewhere for the evening.

“You look like shit,” Mike offered a pitiful smile over his latte, pulling John back to the present. “I thought yesterday was your day off?”

“It was..” John trailed off, rubbing at his temples, hoping the images from his nightmares could be wiped free.

“But?”

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock?”

John considered lying. Mike wouldn’t press him if he changed the subject a second time. But with exams in just two weeks he needed help, desperately, “Yeah.”

“What happened this time?”

John sighed, tossing the dish rag to the laundry bin, “How long do you have?”

“Forever if you feed me,” Mike laughed.

It took two scones and another latte to retell the whole story. Sherlock’s near nudity, Mary’s ill-timed flirting and John’s complete inability to catch a damn break. After John had finished, his friend sat back, thoughtfully cleaning his glasses as he considered the options. “So, let me just make sure I’ve heard this correctly. Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Keeps-to-himself, walked out half naked and knowing full well you were home--”

“He didn’t--”

“Trust me, he knew,” Mike waved off John’s objection, glasses settling back rest on his nose. He may have only known the boy for a few years in their youth, but there was no way someone as observant as Sherlock Holmes didn’t hear John and Mary enter the house holding a conversation.

John’s face scrunched up, saddled with new questions. If Sherlock had walked out on purpose, what was the point? “Why would he--”

“Who knows,” Mike shrugged. “Sherlock does odd things to his own purpose. But there is always a purpose. However, what I don’t understand, is why you care so much. I thought you were going to skip dating this year.”

“I was, but..” John shrugged, looking up as the front bell chimed. “Excuse me,” he ducked back behind the counter, thankful for the interruption a small rush of new customers offered.

* * *

“Sherlock, wait, listen,” Molly rushed to keep up, following him inside. But Sherlock used his height to its full advantage, taking the steps two at a time up to the Chemistry Labs. Hoping Molly would take the hint and drop the conversation.

But she kept her pace right beside him. Damn dancer’s legs.

“Molly, please leave me--”

“Molls?” an all-too-familiar voice called from inside the laboratory. “Oh hey, Sherlock, thought I heard voices. You lot left practice early today?” An upperclassman named Greg Lestrade waved from inside the room.

Sherlock groaned in response, taking the farthest table from the door, shoulders slumped in defeat. So much for retreating to his safe space for the evening.

“Greg!” Molly squeaked as she entered, rushing across the classroom to get swooped up into a hug before settling back to the floor with a soft peck on the forehead from her boyfriend.

Sherlock made a point of groaning louder.

“Ignore him,” Molly said, sticking her tongue out and hopping up to sit on the table, beside Greg’s notes. “Someone is just a bitter crank because his dream boy has a new friend.”

“Girlfriend,” Sherlock corrected. “John Watson does not go out nor does he see friends outside of class or the cafe. Therefore, this person must be special to him, an exception to his usual routine. Ergo, girlfriend.”

“There you go again, assuming the worst so you can stay gloomy and single forever,” Molly rolled her eyes as Sherlock huffed and glared. Thankfully, two years of ballet with the boy had built up an immunity to his moods. “Fine. Ask Greg then. Tell him the whole thing and see if he doesn’t agree with me,” Molly decided, elbowing the older boy beside her.

“Oi, don’t drag me--” Greg began to protest.

“Very well then,” Sherlock agreed, standing to cross the room, “But if he sides with me, you both leave me alone for the rest of the week.”

“Deal,” Molly smiled, pulling her legs up to the table, crossing them for elbow rests and settling in.

Greg watched the exchange, his curiosity winning over. He shoved his notes aside and jumped up to settle beside Molly. Two sets of eyes waiting as Sherlock began to pace, muttering beneath his breath.

“Okay.. before we begin, bear in mind that this was all Irene’s horrible idea,” he began. “Laugh once and the story ends.”

Molly giggled then cut herself off when Sherlock’s head snapped up, face dead serious. She gestured a zipper over her lips and nodded for him to continue.

* * *

“John,” Mike whispered-yelled for his friend, waving him over. He leaned in conspiratorially as John refreshed his mug, gesturing to the young blond man who had just walked in, “John, isn’t that the guy?”

“Who?” John looked to where Mike was pointing, “Oh--” his least favorite customer was back. Mr. _Trust Me_. Stood in the doorway of the cafe, kicking snow from his boots. John and Mike watched as he greeted a young woman in the back with a wave and a smile then took his place on line, wavering before the pastry case with hungry eyes.

“Go, get his order and talk to him,” Mike suggested, giving John a little shove towards the mystery boy.

“And say what exactly?” John whisper-yelled back over his shoulder, trying and failing to dodge Mike’s insistent shoving.

“Afternoon, nice seeing you again, sugar two creams, and by the way did you shag my roommate?” Mike rattled off with a grin, no longer interested in the soft approach of subtlety.

“Oh yes, brilliant plan. Flawless. I’ll be right back,” John laughed, slapping Mike’s hand away and leaving to take his place behind the register. For a moment, Mike stared on in awe, wondering how much of John was being a sarcastic shit. He leaned forward, carefully sipping at his steaming mug and eavesdropping as much as possible.

“Hello again,” John greeted, testing if the man even remembered him.

“Oh, John, hello again. Coffee, tall, milk no sugar please?”

“Right away,” John turned, preparing the drink and trying to think of how best to ask. In the end, he just went for it. John set the cup to the counter and as the boy reached for his wallet, he spoke, “There you go. Listen, I’m sorry if this is forward but the other night.. the matter we.. discussed? Can you explain what you meant?”

The boy stopped pulling bills from his wallet and looked up, a mischievous toothy grin swallowing his entire face. Eyes sparked with an understanding that made John’s skin crawl, "Oh, about that…” He trailed off, slowly settling a few bills to the countertop before picking up his drink, “I never kiss and tell, honey.”  He winked, spun to leave, then twirled back around with a giggle, “keep the change!”

John stood dumbfounded, rote muscle memory completing the transaction and chucking coins into the communal tip jar. His eyes followed the young man as he walked to the girl from earlier, hugged her, then moved to sit at a table by the door, alone. He pulled out a laptop and began typing, seemingly unaware that John’s eyes were burning a hole into the side of his pretty face.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re siding with her!” Sherlock was in a proper huff. No chance of getting any work done that evening as he paced the Chemistry lab and stared at the couple sat before him. Two aresholes pulling far too much entertainment from his slow death.

“Listen,” Greg raised his hands in defense, “All I’m asking is whether you saw John, you know, reciprocate the flirting? Could be she was just coming on to him.”

“John would never let someone touch him like that if--”

“You say that but remember when I first met Molls? That James guy was all over her, too. Taking her hand and sending her notes and even that one time he kissed her cheek. I thought they were dating until you told me he was gay. And even then I didn’t believe you for a long time.”

Molly placed a sympathetic hand on Greg’s arm. She’d always found his jealousy their first month so endearing. “It’s true, Sherlock,” she offered. “Maybe you’re just so scared you only see what you want to see.”

“What is it you say about love?” Greg asked.

“Oh yeah!,” Molly laughed, “You wanted me to put it on that Valentine for Greg last year.  What was it..”

“Love makes one weak and blind,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Exactly,” Molly and Greg said together, exchanging smiles at the accidental mind meld.

Sherlock stopped pacing. He looked up, staring at his two well meaning friends. It was true they had come together under similar circumstance but his situation wasn't the same and he gave himself far more credit in the realm of observation skills. He wavered then opened his mouth to reply only to snap shut at a loss for words. They were right.  He needed more data.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said at last, crossing back to the table to hastily pack his bag, “I need to be somewhere.” He ran for the door without offering further explanation.

“Bring me a latte!” Molly shouted after him.

“I hate you both!” Sherlock answered back as he dashed back down the stairs, checking his watch to make sure John was still on shift.


	7. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm sorry dear. You just missed him"

The last hour of his shift was always the slowest. With Mike gone home, John was left to tinny Christmas music and closing duties. Thankfully, tonight was a Saturday so he had Mrs. Hudson baking in the kitchen. He took in a deep breath, smiling as the warm scent of spice and sugar filled his lungs.

“Thank you, good evening!” John called out to the couple bundling up to leave. The snow outside had worsened and with no new orders to fill, he’d decided to start reorganizing the supply cabinets.

“Johnny,” Mrs. Hudson laughed, swatting at him with a dish towel as she passed behind, “you’re the only one who does that you know.”

“Someone has to,” John shrugged, straightening the green flat-pack boxes they used for catering orders.

The older woman swiped a few stray greys from her brow and made herself a cup of tea. Leaning against the back counter for a rest as she waited for the leaves to steep, “Slow night?”

“Storm picked up,” John paused his task to begin toasting a chocolate croissant, knowing it was her favorite nibble with chai. “I think everyone opted for instant tonight.”

“Is it that bad?” Mrs. Hudson leaned over to peek outside the back window, “Oh. Well, no matter. My mince pies will bring them all back tomorrow.”

On cue, the oven timer dinged and she excused herself to the back, mug in hand.

* * *

Sherlock hunched lower into his coat, breathing in metered breaths to create pockets of warmth for his face. Traffic sped by, casting a fine mist of grey snow and slush to the pavement. A shiver wracked his body and gave him pause, checking the road sign before stepping into the street. Thankfully, the cafe was only a few more blocks away.

In a flash of lights and squealing brakes Sherlock was forced to stop. A sleek black sedan pulling up in front of him. _Not now_ , he grimaced, watching as the back window lowered just enough for steam and a stern voice to escape.

“Don’t just stand there, Sherlock. Get in.”

Sherlock looked once more up the street before accepting the ride. “Have we upgraded to stalking now?” he asked, slumping into the seat with a frown. Annoyed with himself for immediately feeling like a petulant child, but unable to fight the impulse.

Despite the weather outside, the man seated across from him was impeccably dressed. His grey and olive check suit showing no sign of wear. Not a speck of snow nor salt nor gravel on his Louis Vuittons. His dark red hair a perfect quiff over pale blue eyes and a beak-like nose. The full force of his judgmental stare taking in Sherlock’s rumpled scarf, loose curls and wet dress socks. “I simply wished to speak with you, little brother.”

“I prefer to text.”

“You never answer my texts.”

“I never read them.”

“Clearly.”

A long stretch of silence passed between them, as the Holmes brothers each calculated their next move. Sherlock finally broke eye contact to look out the window before speaking, “I was on my way--”

“This could not wait.”

“What could possibly--”

“You have exams in two weeks.”

“Which I am more than prepared for and you already know this. Stop dancing around it, what do you really want?”

“Dancing?” the beak-nosed man smiled, leaning back to cast his face half in shadow, “how apt your choice of verb.”

Sherlock’s blood ran cold, fighting every instinct to show fear on his face. There was no way he could know about the ballet. Sherlock had been careful, extremely careful. Training off hours when the dance studio was closed and only with people he could trust. Always stopping by the Chemistry lab to keep up appearances. But of course the older man noticed. He always noticed.

“Don’t be worried, little brother. I won’t tell father of your.. extracurriculars.”

“How did you-- nevermind. What is this then? Blackmail?”

“I would be offended were the idea not so ridiculous,” he scoffed. “No, I’ve come to inform you that I’ve spoken with Anderson and--”

“What?!” Sherlock snapped back, glaring at his brother.

“You were in need of--”

“I do not need anything from you, Mycroft. I am more than capable of taking care of myself!” Sherlock shouted.

“Clearly,” Mycroft paused a moment, looking Sherlock over once more. His brother’s disheveled state revealing something else. Something more pressing than ballet.

“What is it now?” Sherlock snapped, impatient to escape his brother’s scrutinizing gaze.

“How is your roommate? Watson, was it?”

Sherlock tried not to react but his eyes gave him away. A glare stealing across his features, undermining the shrug of nonchalance. “How should I know? I don’t keep tabs--”

“We both know that’s not quite true,” Mycroft smiled.

“John Watson is doing just fine without your meddling. He’s smarter than most people realize, a hard worker and a good man. He’s more capable of handling himself than even…” Sherlock trailed off, flushing at the accidental overshare.

“No matter,” Mycroft cleared his throat, knowing when to pull back. “I simply wished to inform you that I am aware of your upcoming performance and, without revealing the particulars, I have ensured the day is now free in your academic schedule.”

“I assume you want my gratitude?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock relaxed, however minutely. If he’d had any semblance of a normal relationship with his family, he would be thanking Mycroft, praising his thoughtfulness. “I suppose it would be remiss not to.. thank you, brother mine,” he said at last. Voice barely a whisper, should anyone else overhear.

“Ah,” Mycroft, more skilled in composing himself, let the words settle away into the deepest parts of his heart before moving on. “Now then, where were you headed on such a foul evening?”

“Speedy’s Cafe.”

“You have a working kettle in your dormitory, do you not?”

“That’s not-- I had another purpose.”

“You cannot afford distractions, Sherlock.”

“I can look after myself, thank you.”

“Clearly.”

The car pulled to a stop and Sherlock wasted no time escaping, turning back to stick his tongue out when realization struck. He’d been driven back to campus.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted out, but the sedan was already speeding off, his brother’s rude cackling echoing into the night. A chill gust of wind whipped his scarf, lashing across red cheeks with stinging pain. Sherlock angrily snatched the offending garment and tucked it in, pulling his coat collar up and hunching into the wind. Wet socks or no, he would simply have to walk faster.

* * *

John watched a young mother bundle up her son before putting her own gloves on and ushering them both out into the night. He stretched, popping his back and scouting the remaining customers. There was only one, the rude blond boy from before. Still absorbed in whatever work kept him glued to his laptop.

The toaster oven dinged behind him, and John set his disappointment aside to fetch Mrs. Hudson’s pastry.

“Johnny, you didn’t have to--”

“I insist,” John smiled and settled the plate beside her mug. He leaned against the back counter, watching with fascination as Mrs. Hudson’s skillful hands kneaded and rolled out dough for the morning’s pastries.

“I can watch the register if you want to leave early,” she offered. “Get some extra studying in for exams?”

“I have plenty of time to study later. Besides, it smells like Heaven back here,” he grinned, hand sneaking towards the cooling rack full of miniature mince pies.

“John Hamish Watson, don’t you dare!” Mrs. Hudson wheeled around, scorn lost in fit of giggles.

“But I’m a growing boy!” John laughed, snatching a pie and ducking down to dodge a flying tea towel as he stuffed the entirety of the tin into his mouth.

“They haven’t properly cooled! You’ll burn your mouth,” Mrs. Hudson laughed, watching John fan himself, eyes watering. “Serves you right.”

The front bell chimed and John jumped, brushing crumbs from his face and apron in a hurry. He gestured to the front, excusing himself, unable to speak.

Mrs. Hudson waved a rolling pin at him, “Get back to work,” she laughed.

“One moment,” John tried to call out to their new customer, but his mouth was still a bit full and the words were a muffled _‘wonmonmon’_. He rounded the corner, choking down hot pie and froze in the door frame.

It was Sherlock.

Flushed and nervously looking around as he dusted the snow from his coat and hair. Sherlock slipped his scarf and gloves off, hastily stuffing them to his coat pocket as he kicked snow from his shoes. John ran a quick hand across his face for any pie remnants and stepped forward when a tuft of blond hair suddenly blocked his view.

“Sherlock?”

“Victor?”

John watched in stunned silence as the young man from before bounded across the cafe and wrapped himself around Sherlock, nearly knocking them both over with the force of his hug. Sherlock stammered and flailed, his own arms flying to hold on tight lest they both collapse. The boy called Victor laughed, dropping a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s cheek before pulling back to take him by the hand.

“Oh my goodness, you’re frozen, come sit, let me get you something hot to drink,” Victor dragged Sherlock to the back, all but forcing him to the seat opposite himself. “What on earth are you doing out in this weather?”

“I was looking for--”

“My god how long has it been?”

“Five years,” Sherlock answered. Annoyed but unsurprised to be interrupted.

“Those rosey cheeks, I wouldn’t think you’ve aged a day,” Victor laughed, big and fake and loud and Sherlock remembered all the reasons he’d put five years between them.

“It was nice to see you again b--”

“Is it really?” Victor asked, dramatically fluttering his eyelashes.

“No. Not really,” Sherlock admitted, looking away.

Victor’s face fell, no longer interested in maintaining the false smile. “Let me get you a coffee, at least. Your lips are blue.”

“That’s quite--”

“John!” Victor yelled out, looking around for the boy in the green apron. But the cafe was empty. A door slammed somewhere in the back followed by murmuring and hasty footsteps.

“John?” Sherlock asked, looking behind the counter in expectation.

A moment of silence passed through the cafe before an elderly woman with a kind face exited the back room. “One moment,” she called out.

Sherlock watched as she searched her apron pockets, then patted around her bun before finding a pencil tucked behind her ear. She approached the table, flipping to a blank sheet in her writing pad. “Now, what can I get you lovely young boys?”

“Sorry, Martha, but is John available?” Sherlock looked up from her nametag, face falling as the older woman cast a frantic glance over her shoulder and frowned.

“Oh no, I’m sorry dear. You just missed him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so sorry for the big break. TAB kinda broke my brain.


	8. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you sure you’re going to be okay?

Sherlock accepted a ride back to campus from Victor. _Needs must_ , he groused, taking the stairs two at a time.

“John!” he shouted out, the front door flinging open. No one answered.

“John?” Sherlock tried again, kicking out of wet shoes and struggling to free himself from his scarf and gloves. Naught but silence greeted him. The flat was cold, dark and empty. John had not returned. Sherlock sat and peeled wet socks from his feet, balling up and tossing them in the general direction of the hamper. He rubbed his toes together and curled up on the sofa beneath his coat. Too exhausted to undress further. He stared at the front door, willing John to come home even as his eyelids grew heavy. Demanding the universe give him this one thing. But despite his best efforts to stay awake until his roommate’s return, Sherlock fell asleep.

His dreams were cold, at first. Ice encapsulating his toes until each one snapped off with a crisp pop. Tumbling into the abyss beneath him, down down down. Then a light appeared. Soft and warm and blinding as the sun itself. And Sherlock’s toes were returned to him, squishing beneath smooth sand.

When he woke, the fires were lit and Sherlock found himself swaddled in a pocket of heat. Slowly blinking into the morning light, the first thing he saw was his coat draped across his chair. Sherlock sat up with a start. A duvet falling from his shoulders. He pulled it closer then looked down. It was blue and green. _John’s_. Sherlock smiled. Of course John would respect his room and privacy, even now.

Hopeful that all was not lost, Sherlock stood and bundled the duvet around himself. “John?” he called out. No reply. He shuffled room to room, but a lone mug in the sink and the ghost of John’s cologne haunting the front hall was all that remained of his phantom roommate.

Sherlock walked up the hall to find John’s bedroom door stood open. He walked in, fully intending to return the comforter, but a wave of dizziness set the empty room in a spin. He slumped to the foot of the bed, fighting nausea. A shiver racked through him, culminating into a blinding migraine. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to refocus. Perhaps he could just wait. Right here.

* * *

“You haven’t spoken to him yet?” Mike shifted his bag and hurried to keep up. John was rushing to the library as if all the good books were in danger of getting checked out.

“No, not exactly. I mean, he left a note.”

“What?”

“When I got back home last night he was gone. But he’d left this on the table,” John slowed his pace and pulled a small slip of paper from his wallet. He unfolded it to reveal Sherlock’s neat script in the center, bold blue ink.

_Thank you, John._

“And you kept it.. in your wallet?”

“What?” John frowned, carefully folding the note and slipping it back behind his student ID before resuming his brisk stride.

“Nothing,” Mike smiled but dropped it. “Listen, I know he’s been sick, but why didn’t you say anything three days ago?”

“When?”

“When you found him in your room?”

“I couldn’t! He..” John sighed then stopped walking. His mouth twisted up like he was chewing over an idea, eyes drifting over the library’s marble steps, wondering whether his friend could be trusted. Decision reached, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and loaded an image, handing it over.

“What’s th-- oh,” Mike attempted and failed to hide his grin beneath his hand. The picture showed Sherlock curled up under John’s duvet, sleeping. His long pale arms peeking out and clutching John’s pillow against his chest. Dark curls framing his head like a halo. “Oh, that’s actually sort of... sweet,” Mike’s smile grew impossibly wider.

John groaned, flushing red. “It’s not sweet,” he snatched his phone back, closing the display without looking. “He has a boyfriend and this,” he shook his phone at Mike accusingly, “This is not good for me. I’ve still got neck cramps from kipping on the sofa,” John rubbed at his neck to reiterate just how very inconvenient his situation was.

“Then delete it.”

“Wha--” John stepped back, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“Delete the picture and bin his note,” Mike shrugged.

“Why would I--”

“You won’t. And that’s my point, mate. You like him, now talk to him.” Mike winked and walked away. Hopping up the front steps and into the library with a bounce that comes with knowing you’re right.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay for next Friday?” Molly held Sherlock by the elbow, frowning in concern. He was impossibly pale, shivering despite the coat of sweat making his skin damp and clammy.

Sherlock wanted to pull himself free of her grip but he needed the support to stand. It was the third time he’d nearly fallen during practice and he couldn’t risk injury. He pursed his lips, biting back a snide remark. A lifetime of overprotective nannies and family had instilled a distaste for coddling. But Sherlock knew Molly meant well. He looked up and offered her the best smile he could muster, “I will be fine, I promise.”

“Are you sure?” Molly’s frown deepened as another wave of shivers passed through the tall boy leaning into her. “Greg and I can take you to hospital if you need a doctor.”

“I _have_ a doctor,” Sherlock lied. Half lied. John was pre-med after all. And John was the one taking care of him. That counted, right?

“John doesn’t count,” Molly laughed even as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated, pride giving him the strength to finally pull free. Sherlock steadied himself against the railing and readjusted the bag across his shoulders as they exited the dance studio.

“Fine,” Molly sighed. Descending the steps to wave Greg over as he pulled up, “at least let us give you a ride home?”

“If it will make you happy.”

“It will.”

The drive back to campus was quiet. Greg and Molly exchanging side glances, no doubt waiting to talk about him once he was gone. But Sherlock was too exhausted to care. He sat up straighter, fighting to stay awake until he was home.

When he walked in, Sherlock nearly collapsed into the wave of smells rolling over him. John had only just left. His cologne clinging to the front hall. But beneath that heady scent was something else. He sniffed at the air. Dropping his bag, Sherlock let his nose carry him to the kitchen where he settled to his seat. John made curry. A covered plate steamed before him and Sherlock broke into a smile. Set just beside his mug was a note and a small pastry box.

**Eat your supper first.**  
**And take your medicine.**  
**~J**

Sherlock smiled and reached out to switch the kettle on when he froze. The black sweatband on his wrist reminding him he’d come back to campus without changing out of ballet gear. With a groan he pulled himself out of his chair and slipped into his bedroom to change. Cursing himself under his breath for being so careless but thankful John was at work for the evening.

* * *

_Thank you for the pills. I prefer the pie._

John smiled down at the note, folding and tucking it behind the first. By the end of the week, he had to relocate the stack to his desk drawer.

 _Are you sure this is the proper dosage? It tastes disgusting._  
**Just take it, your coughing is keeping us both up.**

 

 _The soup was bland. Perhaps the cold has broken my taste buds?_  
**You are free to cook for yourself.**

_Please get the aloe tissues next time._  
**Please stop tossing them beneath the sofa.**  
_I’m sorry._  
**There is a travel pack in your coat pocket.**

 

 _Your cooking has improved._  
**You’re welcome.**  
_Thank Martha for the pies._

 

 **Are you feeling any better?**  
_Much improved, thank you_.

 

 _I heard you were looking for this book._  
**Life saver!!! Thank you!**

 

 _Best of luck with exams today._  
**Same to you. I hope you’ve found time to study.**  
_I never study, but thank you all the the same._

 

 **Met your brother??? last night.**  
_Explain._  
**He just said thank you and drove off. Mental.**  
_I will make sure to have him killed._  
**LOL**

 

 _Your friend dropped by with these notes. Miles?_  
**Mike. And thank you. Last exam today!**  
_Good luck._

 

 _Why was Irene here?_  
**She wanted to know what I was doing next Friday. Told her I was working.**  
_Good._

 

_Harry called. Plans for Christmas?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is in sight now yay! Next few chapters should go up quickly.


	9. The Things I've Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hadn’t heard Sherlock’s voice in nearly two weeks when the deep rumbling timbre roused him from his sleep.

John hadn’t heard Sherlock’s voice in nearly two weeks when the deep rumbling timbre roused him from his sleep at half past three. It sounded like his insomniac roommate was arguing with someone in the front hall. Another voice, familiar but undefined. John rubbed at his eyes and slipped from bed. Tiptoeing to the door to eavesdrop properly. He pressed his ear to the cool wood surface, told himself it was out of concern for Sherlock’s well being, and held his breath to listen.

“... then you will just have to make something up.”

“Sherlock, why must we go through this every year?”

“You know why.”

“It’s tradition--”

“Forget tradition! What about Victor?”

“He will be welcome of course, you know--”

“That’s not good enough, Mycroft!” A dull thud made John jump back, hand over his racing heart. Someone had punched the wall just beside his door. A long pause of silence followed as both men found their composure and shifted away from the hallway, into the kitchen.

“I know what Victor--” Mycroft began, but stopped. John imagined the younger Holmes gave his brother one of _those_ looks.

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock said. “You can’t possibly know…” he trailed off, his words a mere mumble and John strained closer, desperate to hear them.

“I have apologised a million times, Sherlock. I can do no more to--”

“I’m not-- I don’t need anything from you. Or _them_.”

“Can we not compromise on one evening? At least come for supper?”

“I will try. Now please, leave before you wake him.”

“Him? Oh,” Mycroft paused followed by a set of footsteps heading back up the hall. “Please consider it. I will text you.”

“You know I’ll just delete them.”

“I know you actually read them.”

John heard the front door open followed by Sherlock’s voice, “Yes, you’re brilliant. Goodbye.”

“Good night, brother mine.”

The front door slammed and Sherlock groaned, annoyance palpable in every syllable. “Dammit,” a mumbled curse under his breath and Sherlock dragged his feet back to his bedroom, carefully and quietly closing the door behind.

John waited, ears strained in the darkness, but heard nothing more. He slumped against his door, heart torn to pieces. Sherlock was suffering and he wanted so badly to help. Obviously the Holmes parents were homophobic and disapproved of Sherlock’s relationship with Victor. John wasn’t a detective but he could deduce that much from all he’d overheard. Hell, he’d been witness with his own family when Harriet tried to bring her first girlfriend round for the holidays.

Granted, Harry had better taste in partners and Victor seemed like a right twat no one would want round for supper. John shook his head, casting the thought aside. Jealousy on hold, he resolved to be extra nice to Sherlock. And, even if it made his teeth hurt, let him know it was fine to have Victor come round.

* * *

 

“Nothing.”

“Come again?”

“I’ve got dick all planned, Harry,” John shouted out across the room as he folded and sorted laundry. His sister’s giggling coming through the speaker tinny and crackled.

“Johnny, you must do. Tell me you’ll do something or I’ll never forgive myself for abandoning you.”

“No, sorry, it’s sorted. You’ll just have to live with your guilt forever,” John laughed, letting out a pronounced sigh of false dismay.

“Jooohnny,” Harry whinged, high and teasing. “You’ve passed your exams, aced them even, and you deserve a proper celebration!”

“Oi, fine, listen. I might get a tree and put up a bit of tinsel and eat some pie if it makes you happy.”

“And drink some wine!” Harry shouted out, her smile evident.

“Of course,” John promised. He crossed the room and picked up his phone, switching the speaker function off.

“Anyone else staying in London for Christmas?” Harry asked, her voice mischievous.

“No,” John stopped laughing and paused to listen. Silence. Sherlock was most likely still in bed after his late night confrontation. “I think he’s got, family plans or something.”

“Oh, pity.”

“Anyway. why would he spend holiday with me when he’s got a boyfriend to snog under mistletoe instead?”

“Oh my god, you want to snog him now?” obscene kissing noises rang out.

“Harriet!” John snapped, pulling the phone from his ear in annoyance. “I hate you.”

“Sorry, sorry, right. Well maybe you’ll meet someone else then?”

“Sure,” John scoffed. “I’ll just go to the pub, drink my weight in cider and take home the first pretty thing that finds my eye?”

“You might do,” Harry said.

“Oh yeah, you know me. Three continents Watson. Always looking to get laid.”

“Eww gross, shut up. Don’t remind me. That was such a rude nickname. I only kissed like three girls at camp.”

“Five, Harry. It was five girls, two of them at once. You forgot the twins.”

“Oh yeah.. Maddie and Lori. So bendy. Lovely Summer that was,” Harry’s voice was light, wistful. “Anyway… look it’s obviously in your genetics, John. Just get out there and work that Watson charm, okay? You’re a catch, and I’m not just saying that as your sister who loves you. You deserve to have someone that makes you as happy as, well, as happy as Clara makes me.”

“Okay, I promise I will do my best to get a snog on Christmas. But nothing else.”

“Yes, thank you. Listen, I’ve got to dash. Clara sends her love. I’ll call day after for the naughty details, okay?”

“Goodbyyyyee,” John laughed, hanging up. He went back to his laundry, sorting each pile into the appropriate drawers. Unaware that just outside his door, Sherlock was stood in the hall, frowning.

* * *

 

**Nothing planned. Staying in London though. You?**

John looked down at the sheet and crumpled it up. Binning the words for the fifth time. It was none of his business what Sherlock had planned for the break. If he wanted John to know, he would have told him. Besides, did he really want to hear about cute couple activities Sherlock had planned with Victor?

 _Still_ , John thought. _Rude not to reply_.

**I’ll be staying here. ~J**

He left the note beside the kettle and dressed for the shops. Determined to keep his promise to find a tree even if he would be breaking all the others, alone with Netflix for two weeks. John bundled up, scarf knotted tight, and with one last check that the lights were switched off, he stepped outside.

“Oh!” John jumped back in surprise. Irene and Molly were both stood on his front step, huddled together for warmth and whispering conspiratorially. “Were you looking for--”

“You,” Irene stepped forward to link her arm at his right elbow.

“Hello again, John,” Molly smiled, sidling up to his left. “Have a moment for a chat?”

“Actually I was just--”

“We insist, just a cup of coffee. My treat,” Irene said.

“Just give us five minutes,” Molly pleaded. Her soft eyes much less intimidating now that John knew she was only a friend.

“Okay but--”

“Great!” the girls answered in unison. Before he could debate further, John was lead to the library cafe, settled at a table in the back and treated to the world’s sweetest cinnamon spice muffin.


	10. The Things I've Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IwillnotfallinlovewithHamlet  
> IwillnotfallinlovewithHamlet  
> IwillnotfallinlovewithHamlet  
> IwillnotfallinlovewithHamlet  
> IwillnotfallinlovewithHamlet

John checked himself in the mirror for the third time. His trousers and jacket were navy blue, a thin grey pinstripe matching the ash waistcoat beneath. He hadn’t worn the suit in years but it was the nicest thing he owned and Irene specifically told him to wear the nicest thing he owned. He checked his watch and smiled nervously at the time. Molly’s boyfriend was expected to pop by with a tree any minute, her bargaining chip to get John to agree. Slipping the pocketwatch back to his waistcoat, he made sure his ticket and wallet were secured inside his jacket pocket and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long, a loud knock sounding out as soon as John exited his room.

“Lestrade’s Tree Delivery Service,” a cheery voice called out. “That’ll be eight hundred quid thanks!” an upperclassman with a scruffy beard stood on his stoop, shouldering a large pine tree bundled up with twine. Pink cheeks, red jumper and giddy giggles giving him the air of a deranged Santa.

“You must be Greg,” John laughed, waving the man inside. “Bit strapped for cash, but I can offer you coffee or a couple stale biscuits?”

“No thanks mate, just let me know where you want this beauty,” Greg smiled, shaking the tree he’d hauled in behind him. It was fairly tall, topmost branches brushing the low ceilings, more than John could afford for sure.

“In the corner by the bookshelf, please. I’ve set up the stand. Sorry, I got dressed already.. do you need a hand? I can go change--”

“No no, don’t worry. I got it,” Greg waved him off with a wink and set to work.

John slipped his shoes on and sat to lace them as he watched.

“Excited for tonight?” Greg called over his shoulder, screwing the tree in place at the base.

“Bit nervous actually,” John answered. “I don’t know the first thing about ballet. Are you sure he even wants me there?”

“Yes,” Greg stood and brushed nettles from his jumper. “That much I am sure. And if you get lost, I’ll be sat right beside you to explain things.”

“Cheers.”

* * *

 

Sherlock pulled the heavy red velvet aside and searched the auditorium for any sign of them. The recruiters rumored in attendance from The Royal Ballet. With over an hour until curtain, more than half of the seats were still unoccupied but there, in the back center of the orchestra section, he found a small group of four. Excitedly nodding and pointing. He chuckled to himself, soft and self assured that he’d found his target audience. Thankful the group had elected to stay in business dress and take notes in matching moleskins.

“You’ll do fine,” Molly said behind him.

“I wasn’t worried but thank you,” Sherlock smiled and let the curtain fall back into place. Turning to pick Molly up at the waist and spin her round. “Ready to stretch?”

Molly squealed and batted his hands away, “Yes, quickly, Irene is waiting for us.”

“Oh, and how does her Highness like the new dress for Act two?”

“Love it!” Irene called out from across the stage, spinning about in a fabulous costume. An ocean of deep blues and purples, fluttering with every movement, each rich texture detailed in gold braid hem. All tapered in at the waist in a corset-style cinch. “Did you see the gold, and the sleeves, and the skirts? My god she’s really outdone herself with this one.” Irene gave the dress another twirl before stopping to unzip and hang it back on the rack.

“Yes, I suppose it pays to sleep with the costume designer,” Sherlock laughed, laying out his mat and rolling his neck with a slow crackling pop.

“Don’t be jealous just because Kate treats me like the queen I am,” Irene laughed, pulling pins from her bun to remove the tiara. “Besides, she put a lot of work into making all of us beautiful. Have you seen your burial gown for Act four Molls?”

“Just this morning! How did she even do that with the flowers? Ridiculously talented that one, better marry her now before she finds out how wretched you are.”

“Excuse me?” Irene spun around, hands on her hips and pouting, “What does that mean?”

“No, I’m just--” Molly flustered, uncrossing her legs to stand and apologise when Sherlock stepped between them.

“Ladies?” Sherlock put on his serious face but a smile slipped through. “As much as I do enjoy your tiffs, please focus. Curtain goes up in fifty eight minutes.”

“True,” Irene said, giving Molly a cheeky wink. “Tonight is very important for our dear Sherlock.”

“Too true,” Molly agreed, trying so very hard not to laugh as Sherlock cocked his head in confusion. “Truce?”

“Truce.”

* * *

 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He felt exposed, sat front center just behind the orchestra pit. Light-headed and bubbly from a mix of nerves and proximity to the stage lights. The hall was full, everyone chattering around him in a dull hum of excitement. He fidgeted with the program, noting that Sherlock was to be the title character in this evening’s performance of _Hamlet_. He’d long since rolled the small pamphlet into a wrinkled ball of stress, waiting for Greg to arrive, and checking the vacant seat beside him for probably the millionth time.

Movement on stage drew his attention and John looked up, finding a shocked pair of familiar eyes locked on him. Sherlock looked stunned, a bit angry but mostly confused. He pointed an accusing finger at John, mouthing out, “What are you doing here?” and John shrugged, giving his roommate a reassuring smile and a thumbs up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let the curtain fall back. John frowned and watched the red velvet settle, sliding lower in his seat and wishing the ground would open up to devour him whole.

“He’s just nervous,” Greg appear beside him, a comforting tap to John’s shoulder. “Also, the girls didn’t exactly tell him you were coming toni--”

“What?” John sat back up, looking left and right for the nearest exit. “I should.. I should go.”

“No,” Greg’s voice grew stern. “Just trust me on this, please. He wants you here.”

“What about Victor?” John grumbled, crossing his arms and settling back in the chair defeated.

“Who?”

“His--”

“Shh!” an older woman hissed behind them as the lights began to dim.

“Sorry,” Greg and John both whispered back. Silently agreeing to drop the conversation.

The curtains pulled back and soft music began. On stage, young lovers danced a private duet. John nearly gasped when he recognised the girl. Irene Adler. Her long dark hair hung in loose ringlets, flowing down the back of a white chiffon dress. Crown of bright yellow flowers perfectly matching the tights of her dance partner. Their movements were light, full of the promise of youth and joy. But suddenly the cheerful music dropped to a menacing timbre as stage lights bled a deep red. A troupe of demons and a man in black appeared. The man was tall, blond. John recognized him as someone he’d seen around campus. He snuck up behind the couple, arm wrapping around the man’s waist and pulling him away. The demon horde produced a spear and John felt his heart jump in his throat as the poor lover was killed on stage. Irene’s devastation clear in every movement as she collapsed at the feet of his corpse.

John had never been to a ballet performance before, and despite his familiarity with Shakespeare’s play, this version was something else. Somehow, the story without words, was more powerful than he’d remembered. He waited in anticipation as the stage went black for a prop reset.

Then the lights turned up as did the music and a fleet of women in white poured forth, pushing a large cot. Confusion set in as a pair of pale feet poked up from the bassinet. The dancing maidens fitted them with white satin shoes and the cot fell away as the music faded until all that remained was a single spotlight. And stood center stage in white tights and a sheer shirt, was Sherlock. The entire room fell silent. Then the music came in, soft and lilting, and he began to move. A fleet footed child, he danced about the stage like a baby fawn discovering new legs. For three whole minutes, John forgot how to blink.

“There’s my girl,” Greg whispered beside him, pulling John back to Earth.  John turned to Greg and smiled, then back to the stage. He didn't want to miss a moment.  Molly stepped forward, her beautiful red hair pulled up in a high ponytail and topped in a crown of white flowers. She wore a yellow dress echoing Gertrude’s from the opening scene and as they mimicked the lover’s duet from Scene one, John realized she was Ophelia.

For a flash he was jealous, Sherlock’s hands all over Molly, the way they moved in sync. He wondered a moment how Greg must feel, but when he turned to check the man’s face, all he found was rapture. Greg was in love.

John turned back to the stage, Sherlock’s perfect form blinding him once more. Every movement precise and fluid and brilliant. The scene came to a close as Polonius and Claudius took over and John let his eyes follow Sherlock until every last bit of him vanished off stage. The performance was only fifteen minutes in and he was dangerously close to jumping up and declaring his feelings in front of all these nice people. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to remind himself not fall in love with Hamlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of the inspiration for this performance comes from:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqN-cfWgxJQ


	11. In Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But I thought..."

By final curtain, John was buzzing in his seat. The show had been a fabulously choreographed performance with a powerful score and talented cast of dancers. But it was Hamlet’s death in particular which left him breathless. Even as the house lights came back on and the performers stepped forward to take their parting bows, John stared unblinking at the scattered bits of red confetti that had bled forth from Sherlock’s chest just moments before.

“Are you crying, mate?” Greg’s voice made him jump.

“No, umm. it was just the stage lights,” John lied, wiping at his eyes in haste and looking away. “I’m just, if you don’t mind,” he stood, slipping his jacket back on. “I need to pop in the loo. I’ll meet everyone round back, yeah?”

Before Greg could respond, John disappeared into the sea of faces exiting the theater.

“Greg!” Molly exclaimed behind him. She bounded across the aisle, Irene and Kate in tow. Greg held his arms open catching the excited redhead as she jumped into his embrace, peppering his cheeks and forehead with kisses. “How did you like it?”

“Molls, you were brilliant!” Greg beamed. “Most beautiful and talented Ophelia in known history.”

Irene put on a dramatic pout behind them, “Kate, my peach, am I the most beautiful and talented Gertrude in history?”

“Only you can make the name Gertrude sexy,” Kate laughed, her giggles lost in a soft kiss as Irene took the compliment at face value.

“All thanks to your beautiful costumes, dove,” Irene smiled, dipping them and deepening the kiss as Kate squeaked in surprise.

A deep voice ahem-ed behind them, both couples pausing their activities to look up at a flustered and awkward Sherlock, shuffling his feet and trying not to meet any of their eyes. His hair was still a mess but he’d changed from his tights and chiffon to a pair of denim and a simple purple button up.

“Sherlock!” Greg and Irene shouted out, untangling themselves from their loved ones. All four friends tackling the star dancer in a group hug. Their words of praise melding into one ball of light, filling him from within until he couldn’t help but hug back. “You were amazing! Your best work yet!”

“Okay, okay, listen I’m going to need oxygen,” Sherlock’s words were stern but his voice was light as he pulled back, hoisting himself up to set on the stage and get a properly look at the guilty parties, “So, whose bright idea was it, hmm?” Sherlock scanned over their faces, waiting for someone to give the truth away.

“Who else?” Greg laughed, crossing his arms and sitting back with a grin. Molly started giggling, covering her mouth as soon as Irene playfully jabbed her in the ribs.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t happy to see him,” Irene said, shrugging in her defense.

“It wasn’t.. that’s not--” Sherlock fumbled, trying to explain that yes he was thankful but perhaps they should warn him next time so he doesn’t get distracted every single time he looks front center to find blue eyes and a cheeky grin and god, that body in that suit. It was indecent.

“Where is the infamous John anyhow?” Kate asked, looking around with a pout. “I feel a bit left out having never met the mystery dream boy. Did he turn back into a pumpkin at the stroke of twelve?”

“He’s in the gents,” Greg supplied, “said he’ll meet us out back.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. _No surprise,_ he thought. John didn’t want to stick around and actually speak with him. Now that his secret was out, John would probably put in a request to switch houses. No sense keeping everyone around to witness that. “I’ve left my things in the dressing room,” Sherlock muttered, jumping up to stand, “Why don’t you head to Speedy’s? I’ll wait for him and we will meet you there.”

“Are you sure?” Molly asked. Something in Sherlock’s face gave her pause but she shook it off. Assuming he simply wanted to be alone for the big talk.

“I think he would prefer a smaller crowd,” Sherlock smiled, hoping the lie would work.

“Oh ho ho,” Irene winked, “All right then riff raff, let’s clear out. Give the lovebirds their alone time.”

Greg and Kate groaned, but complied when dragged away. Sherlock waved them off, holding his smile until they’d gone.

* * *

 

John heard shouting.

Not the rambunctious playful variety one would expect from a group of friends after a home game or a night at the pub. It was a proper argument. Two voices, words muffled by the heavy stage curtain. John stepped forward, unsure how to proceed when Sherlock’s name caught his ear, grumbled out in the wrong sort of hushed aggression that made his flesh crawl.

“.. Please, just leave,” Sherlock’s voice answered back, he was just inches away, other side of the velvet wall.

“Come on Sherlock, I just wanted to congratulate you.” John gasped, he knew that voice. He wanted to run, but his legs edged him closer.

“I can assure you my friends have already done enough of--”

“But they aren’t here now, and I am.”

“I don’t need you or your praise, Victor,” Sherlock spit the words and spun around, movement shifting the curtain between them.

“Baby, don’t be like that,” Victor’s voice grew closer and John stood frozen in place, wanting to reach forward and pull Sherlock away from the creep. “I saw you tonight, in that little get up, dancing around half naked in front of all those nice people. Don’t pretend it wasn’t for me.” Another shift of the curtain and John was sure Victor had closed the gap between them. He strained his ears, not wanting to hear the sound of lips pressing to skin, but unable to turn away.

“Stop,” Sherlock’s voice sounded small. Defeated. John wasn’t sure he’d even heard it at all. The pounding in his chest drowning out all sound until-- “No.”

It was all the okay he needed. John wrenched the curtain aside, faking a stumble to wedge himself between the two lovers and knocking Victor to his arse with a barely mumbled, “Sorry, mate. Didn’t see you there.”

“John!” Sherlock looked so happy to see him and, though John pretended not to notice, cowering all six feet of himself behind his shorter roommate.

“Oh hey, Sherlock,” John turned to face him directly, eyes quickly scanning for any sign of harm or injury. He raised his voice, speaking for everyone in earshot. “Just wanted to come backstage and congratulate you. Everyone is waiting if you’re ready to leave?” he paused, meeting Sherlock’s gaze and hoping the hint was clear. _I can get you out of here._ He tried to send the message through his eyes. Sherlock only cocked his head and stared back, slowly blinking. John sighed, looking down and closing his eyes to catch his breath when a ball of anger pummeled into him, screeching.

He landed on his back, arms tangling in the loose folds of the curtain behind them. John struggled to shift free but Victor had his legs pinned, fists flying into his chest and sides. John kicked out, trying to roll them when the sound of ripping fabric drowned out all sound and the world went dark. Victor’s grunted curses grew muffled, his blows weaker.

“Victor Anthony Trevor!” a deep voice boomed behind them and John felt Victor freeze.

“Father! I can explai--” Victor’s weight shifted off of him suddenly. His voice trailing off as he was dragged, John hoped, back to Hell.

His legs now freed, John resumed kicking the curtain off, struggling to find air. Hands were on him at once, rolling him this way and that. Sherlock’s voice calling out his name as the velvet coffin was pulled away.

“John! John can you speak, answer me.”

“I’m here, I’m alive,” John answered, blinking into the light.

“Oh, John. God, that.. areshole!” Sherlock rose, crumpling the torn fabric in his fists as he paced. Muttering and grumbling until he’d balled it up nice and tight. “Damn him!” Sherlock yelled, startling a few stage hands as he launched the fabric at the front row.

“Sherlock?,” John tried to keep his voice soft, standing with a small groan as his ribs were still a bit sore. “It’s okay, I promise. I’m sorry I got involved, I just… did you guys break up?”

Sherlock stilled his pacing and turned to scowl at John. His face a twisted mess of disgusted and horrified rolled up into one, “What? Victor is not my boyfriend. He was never-- anything.”

“Oh,” John flushed in embarrassment, “I’d just assumed..”

“An endeavor one should always avoid,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “lest one look like an imbecile.”

“I’m just saying, the way you behaved--”

“The way, I-- What about you? What about Mary?”

“Mary?” John tried to hide his laugh, “If you hadn’t stomped off the night I tutored her--”

“Tutored? Do you often tutor people as they sit in your lap?”

“She was sat on the chair, Sherlock! Besides I never--”

“Never? Never?! Three Continents Watson who makes out with twins has never done something? Pray tell what could possibly be so vile--”

“Enough!” John stomped his foot, fists balled at his sides. “That’s not even-- oh!” John doubled over, clutching his chest. He leaned into the wall, steadying himself.

“John?” Sherlock rushed over immediately, panicked. “Do you need a doctor? Should I call 999? John, I don’t do well with these things, just tell me what to do. Please.”

“Sherlock,” John laughed, immediately regretting the decision when a sharp pain rippled through his gut. He found Sherlock’s hand at his shoulder and gave it a small squeeze of reassurance. “Thank you but I just need to rest, okay? Let’s go home.”

Sherlock pouted a moment, looking his roommate over for any sign of mortal peril, then slipped his hand from beneath John’s to help him stand, “Okay.”

John stood still, silently watching as Sherlock helped him into his coat and gloves before bundling up himself. He held up his phone, showing the text to Greg to inform the gang they were skipping the coffee and John smiled. Neither man willing to break the truce of silence as they slipped out back and headed home. It was snowing again, softer than before, creating a twinkling halo around each lamp. The night calm with a peace and intimacy that comes with fresh snow and empty streets.

But as the men approached campus, John broke the spell. His voice low, barely a whisper over the wind. “Sherlock?” John brushed his knuckles over Sherlock’s elbow to gain his attention, leaning in to keep his voice low.

“Mm?” Sherlock slipped his hands from his pockets. Suddenly too warm to need the added layer.

“You were brilliant tonight,” John smiled, watching the side of Sherlock’s face until a twitch of the lips let him know the words had registered.

“As were you,” Sherlock kept his eyes forward, but let his hand fall between them, fingers linking with John’s. Delighting in the way John immediately adjusted himself to walk closer. Hating every molecule of fabric their gloves put between them.


	12. In Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We have a past.”  
> “What sort of past, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Yes, mother.  Yes, I understand.  No he’s.. he will be fine, that is unnecessary.  Yes.  Okay.  Okay.  Goodbye.”  Sherlock hung up and turned to find John hovering in the front hall, smiling.

“Mummy Holmes?” he asked, toeing out of his shoes and fumbling to unknot his scarf with gloves on.

“Shut up,” Sherlock grinned, crossing the room to help John out of his scarf and coat.  Hanging their snow-damp garments across his chair to dry.  He turned to kick off his own shoes only to get distracted by John’s mouth and teeth nipping the tip of his glove, prying chilled fingers free.  Sherlock cleared his throat, redirecting his mind out of the gutter.  “You will be happy to hear that the Trevor family has declined an invitation to the Holmes’ Annual Christmas Ball.”

“Oh?” John quirked an eyebrow.  Half his mouth twitching upwards.  

“Family Emergency,” Sherlock fought the urge to wink, but a grin slipped through.

John laughed, heading to the kitchen to fire up the kettle.  “Shame, really. They seem like such lovely people.  Your mother must be heartbroken.”

“Mm yes, irreparably devastated,” Sherlock followed John to the kitchen, “She said they’ve been permanently banned from the manor.”

John chuckled, but paused mid-laugh, forehead crinkling in concern as the new information hit him.  Sherlock watched the change, steeling himself for the worst. 

“Do you know him well then? I mean, I know you said he wasn’t your boyfriend but--”

“We have a past.”

“What sort of past, if you don’t mind me asking?”  John leaned against the counter, waiting.

“I..”  Sherlock looked away, wondering how much he should share.  He played out eight different scenarios, trying to gauge John’s possible reactions.  In the end, he decided to rip it off like a plaster.  “Victor was my French tutor.  We met through Mycroft when I was sixteen and he was nineteen.  I developed a crush on him, my first real sexual attraction to anyone and I stupidly went to my older brother for advice.  Mycroft encouraged me to keep my crush and, more importantly, my sexuality a secret.  I didn’t listen, bad habit and all.  Confessed everything to Victor one evening and he reciprocated.  We engaged in intercourse, my first and last time.  A few short weeks later, Victor moved to Paris.”  Sherlock collapsed to his chair at the table, head in his hands, and waited for the yelling.  Feeling for certain John would see him as nothing more than broken and damaged.

But John didn’t yell.  He didn’t even speak.  Just stepped behind him, a gentle touch to Sherlock’s shoulder, “Is that… everything?”  His voice was soft, soothing.  No insistence. 

Sherlock swallowed and pushed forward.  “After Victor moved to Paris, I went to Mycroft again and I begged him and blackmailed him and threatened him until he bought me a train ticket and I--” Sherlock choked up, reliving the memory in his mind.

“I went to his university, found where Victor was living and.. I just showed up on his doorstep.  This stupid sixteen year old kid stalking him across the continent.  Of course he was mad, he had every right--” Sherlock felt John’s hand clench.  “Anyway, he told me to go away, that I.. I was being immature.  Yelled at me in front of everyone until I was too embarrassed to stay.  So I left.  Walked back to the station, but had no money for a return ticket.  I called Mycroft and he sent a car for me.  My parents never found out.”

John paused his hands, waiting.

“That’s everything,” Sherlock said, leaning back, cheek rubbing into John’s hand.

John hmmed, figuring out the rest for himself as his petting became a sort of reassuring massage.  “And you hadn’t seen him until he ambushed you at the café.”

“Correct,” Sherlock stiffened, “You saw that?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that why--”

“Yeah,” John blushed, thankful Sherlock couldn’t see his face.

“Right,” a smile bloomed on Sherlock’s face and he fought every instinct to turn, see the flushed cheeks befitting John’s guilty replies.  “So what about you then?  Any sordid details from your past you wish to air tonight?”

"Well,” John gave Sherlock’s shoulder another squeeze then walked round the table to face him.  “I, too, fell in lust at sixteen.  But he was a boy on my rugby team.”

“So you’re not, I mean, I thought Mary--”

John laughed, but paused when it hurt his chest to breathe.  Sherlock made to stand but John waved him off.  “No, I’m.  I’m fine.  Sherlock, there was literally nothing ever going on with Mary, but I am bisexual.  And despite my best efforts to forgo dating this semester, I do find my male roommate rather attractive.”

“I see,” Sherlock smiled, biting his lower lip, “Please continue.”

“James and I dated for nearly two years.  In secret.  Fought a lot at the end.  He never wanted to come out, I didn’t have it in me to keep lying.  After school he joined the Army and I decided to become a doctor.  Swore off relationships.”

“Forever?” Sherlock looked up, eyebrow quirked.

John just smiled in response, turning to fetch mugs. He reached up and froze, trying and failing to disguise the hitch in his breath as a twinge of pain shot up his back.  John closed his eyes, trying to put on a smile before turning to face his roommate.   

“John?” Sherlock frowned.

“I’m fine,” John set the mugs down and leaned into the ice box, clenching his jaw.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock made to stand again but John waved him off once more.  “Mother asked if you were in need of medical assistance, we can have a car sent immediately if you need to go to hospital.”

“Should have told her I’m pre-med,” John laughed.

“Doctors are not granted immortality through education,” Sherlock hovered a moment in indecision, not wanting to loom but determined to stay near should John need him.

“I’m fine,” John looked at the empty seat across from Sherlock, debating internally whether he was too sore to sit.  Knowing the slightest flinch would launch Sherlock back into nanny mode.  “Nothing a hot shower can’t fix,” he said with a nod of decision and turned round intending to prepare supper. But John’s eyes gave away the depth of his exhaustion, unfocused even as he searched the ice box for something to nibble.

Sherlock wasn’t buying it.  “I can finish out here,” he offered, “get the fire started and find something on telly while you go warm up.”

John looked between his roommate and the back hall, “Yeah?”

“Please, John, for me?” Sherlock rose to his feet, closing the ice box door and gently steering John towards the hall.  “I cannot relax until I know you’re on the mend.”

“Well, if it’s for your well being,” John swayed in Sherlock’s grasp, enjoying the feel of strong hands at his waist, “I suppose I can manage a quick shower.” He smiled, then quickly turned round and surged forward, kissing Sherlock’s cheek and running off in a flurry of nervous giggles.

Sherlock stared after him, watching as John made his way to the bath.  Hand coming up to hold his tingling cheek, the flushed skin warm beneath his fingers. He didn’t dare breathe until John had fully gone from view, melting into a helpless puddle the moment the door clicked shut.

* * *

 

After twelve minutes, Sherlock grew restless.  He moved their coats and scarves to the front hall hooks, returned to his chair, picking at lint balls as he stared blankly into the fire.  At twenty minutes, he stood and began pacing.  Considered making tea, but decided in favor of a fresh mug once John returned.  He flipped the telly on, switching between rubbish programmes until settling on a replay of _Skyfall_ on BBC Three.  By fifty seven minutes he grew concerned, tip-toeing down the hall to set an ear to the door.  John was humming Queen.  A good sign.  Sherlock shrugged and went to his own room to change.  Quickly slipping into loose cotton trousers and a soft grey tee.

He considered a housecoat when an idea struck.  Back down the hall, he snuck silently into John’s bedroom. Removing the familiar green and blue duvet and wrapping it round himself.  Overwhelmed by the smell of cologne and shampoo and all that was _John_ , Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed him in.

“Ahem,” a throat cleared behind him and Sherlock froze, caught in the act.

“J-John, I,” Sherlock stammered out, made move to drop the duvet but found he needed it to hide his shame.  “I’m sorry I—“

“It’s okay Sherlock,” John laughed, adjusting his towel and stepping forward, “I think it’s cute.”

“Nooooo..” Sherlock let out a dramatic wail and collapsed to John’s bed in a cocoon of stolen covers.  He refused to turn, refused to open his eyes.  “Leave me here, John.  I’m already dead.”

The bed dipped and Sherlock felt John nudge up behind him.  “You don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to, but can I stay?”

“That’s ridiculous, John.  It’s your room.”

John hmmed and shifted like he was looking around, “So it is!” he exclaimed.  “Guess you’re stuck with me then.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock mumbled, failing to hide the smile in his voice.  He chewed at his lips, considering what to say next when John shifted again.  He was moving the pillows, gently rolling Sherlock back into his chest to cradle the duvet bundle properly.  Settling to a more comfortable position for his injuries.  After a few moments of patient silence, John was rewarded with curious eyes and a mess of static frazzled curls peeking out of the covers.  “John?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you naked?”

“Humans often shower without clothing, Sherlock.”

“Ah.”

“I do have a towel on, if you’re--” John shifted, pulling away.  That would not do.

“No no, it’s um.. it’s fine,” Sherlock rolled over to face John, opening the corner of the duvet and pulling him inside.  John’s chest was damp, but warm and Sherlock settled into him, “This is nice.”

John slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer.  Nestling his nose into the tuft of curls and breathing in the soft mix of lavender shampoo and salty tint of sweat.  He let his own eyes fall shut, sighing in relief for the first time in weeks, “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry??? But there are two more chapters because I want them to have a happier ending than originally planned??? oops.


	13. In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looked up to find John’s sleepy smile blinking down at him. He opened his mouth to speak, searching for the right words to express his gratitude.  
> ____  
> Ayy I finally wrote that M rating thing.

“John?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you,” Sherlock’s voice was hushed, a muffled whisper lost in the darkness.

“What for?” John asked around a yawn.

Sherlock looked up to find John’s sleepy smile blinking down at him. He opened his mouth to speak, searching for the right words to express his gratitude. John had saved him in more ways than he knew. In more ways than Sherlock was ready to explain. After years spent blaming himself for Victor. Hating every inch of flesh he’d let that scumbag touch. It was amazing to finally feel free again. Like he could breathe after drowning for so long. “Everything,” he said.

“Sherlock,” John’s eyes were soft, but he laughed the compliment off, his chuckle low and deep and shaking through them as he shuffled closer. “I should be thanking you,” he said between gentle kisses to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Nonsense. I nearly got you murdered--” Sherlock tilted into the kisses, his own lips brushing John’s chest.

“Listen, I nearly had him,” John nipped at Sherlock’s ear. “Lucky his father showed up to rescue him is all.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock nodded in agreement, stifling a moan as John’s teeth made their way down his neck, “I see.” He rubbed their ankles and knees together, seeking more contact, more heat, more John. His hands wandered up, pulling them closer. “Were you planning to smother him with the stage curtains?” Sherlock teased.

“Oi,” John laughed, biting a bit rougher at Sherlock’s exposed collarbone, “I was just about to get back on my feet.”

“Mm, yes. I’m sure you are very brave and very strong,” Sherlock shifted again and froze. The throbbing hardness between them impossible to ignore. He swallowed back a moan and rocked his hips once, stealing a taste of friction for himself before pulling back.

“God, Sherlock,” John groaned, his heart was racing, adrenaline wrenching him awake. His body had found a new need, something worth staying up for. Hands fisted in the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, teeth grinding in restraint as John tried to steady his breathing.

Sherlock tried and failed to remain still. His hands were already reaching out, gripping tight to the exposed flesh of John’s back, pulling him closer for one more thrust of the hips. But just as Sherlock was moaning in pleasure, John winced. Pain wracking through his chest. He tried to bite back his startled gasp, but Sherlock was already pulling away, mumbling an apology.

“John, as much as I…” Sherlock frowned, holding himself at arm’s length for fear of further injuring the man. Trembling fingers hovering just above John’s shoulder.

“No, I.. I mean I know, and I want to, god do I want to--” John began. He forced himself to smile, trying to at least say with his eyes that it was okay.

“But you are injured,” Sherlock’s frown developed into a full on pout, hand jerking back as John shifted forward.

“Yes, but I’m not dead,” John slipped his thumbs under Sherlock’s shirt to tease the soft flesh beneath. With a wink, he leaned in, returning his lips to their rightful place at Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock laughed and groaned and felt the heat pooling back in his chest as John’s devious fingers worked their way up, up, up. Finding and flicking his nipples. “J-John,” Sherlock gasped, head tossed back as John’s name was lost to bitten lips.

“Yeah?” John asked. His voice had grown softer even as his touch gained confidence. Crowding into Sherlock’s space until they were locked together as one again.

Sherlock let his hands roam free once more, careful to stay away from John’s injuries. They wandered south until hitting a terry cloth barrier. That would not do. “Roll over,” Sherlock gently pulled back, his frown replaced by a devious smile that set fire to his eyes, “I have an idea.”

“Oh?,” John smiled, rolling onto his back and watching with wide eyes as Sherlock slipped under the duvet. “Wha--”

“Trust me,” Sherlock popped back out with a smile and a swift kiss to John’s belly before pulling the duvet back over his head.

Movement beneath the covers lead to Sherlock’s tee flinging out and onto the floor, followed by his trousers. John groaned in jealousy. Sherlock was nearly naked and in his bed and he wanted to see. But before he could pull the duvet back for a glance, he felt his towel unknotted and the flash of cold air on his exposed cock was instantly replaced with a slick heat so inviting he forgot how to do anything but feel. He gave in, eyes closed, fist stifling every dirty word threatening to fly from his throat.

Sherlock moaned around him and John could feel himself getting closer. He pulled the fist from his mouth, panting, “Sh- Sherlock- I’m.”

A fist wrapped around him, slow steady strokes as Sherlock set to small kitten licks and teasing his head. John fell back to his pillow, looking to the ceiling for salvation. Surely he was going to die if this continued.

“Go on, John,” Sherlock said, his hand pumping faster, firmer, “Come for me.”

“Oh, God, yes,” John closed his eyes, back arching painfully as he came. The aftershocks were hell on his chest, but god if there was anything worth hurting for, blowjobs ranked pretty high on that list.

Somewhere over the static ringing through his skull, he heard Sherlock moaning beside him. Felt the bed shifting with the quick slapping of skin on skin followed by a wet splash across his ankle. After a few hot breaths, Sherlock shuffled the discarded towel between them, cleaning up the mess before finally emerging from the duvet.

John came back to himself with enough self awareness to pop one eye open and catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s perfect pale arse slipping down the hall to wash his hands. He listened as Sherlock locked the front door, turned off the telly and set their mugs in the sink. He could feel his eyes growing heavy but tried to keep them open. Facing the open door until Sherlock’s return.

“John?” Sherlock was back. Hovering just outside in the hall. He’d dressed in fresh bed clothes and seemed unable to look at John, despite his modestly covered duvet hidden bits.

John opened his eyes-- _Traitors! When did they close?_ “Hmm?”

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Sherlock fidgeted, unsure what to do with his hands. Cursing himself for selecting pocketless trousers at this crucial moment. Determined to burn any remaining faulty garments post haste when a soft giggle disrupted his thoughts.

“Of course,” John laughed around a yawn, pulling back the duvet in invitation.

Sherlock looked up in shock, opened his mouth to speak, but opted on a smile as he switched off the lights.

John’s mind was still swimming on adrenaline and dreams, grinning stupidly into the darkness as his roommate shuffled in beside him. For a long while he just stared at the ceiling, watching passing lights dance across the cracks, unwilling to blink but unable to speak until the silence grew too heavy. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock shifted his head on the pillow to lean in closer. Something about words exchanged under the cover of darkness made every sentence feel like a secret.

“I quite like you with ideas,” John whispered, swiftly pecking Sherlock on the forehead before finally closing his eyes, and settling back into his own pillow. He felt a kiss on his cheek and smiled. Blissed out and grinning in the dark until his entire face relaxed and he finally drifted off.

“I quite like you,” Sherlock answered in a hushed whisper.


	14. In the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas~!
> 
> (just don't look at a calendar okay?) xx

Birds chirped outside his window and John shifted beneath the duvet. Squinting and groaning and unwilling to remove himself from the pocket of warmth just yet. He licked at chapped lips, poking his head from the dark to glare at the offending noise makers.

“Oi, shut it!” John snipped, lifting his pillow to toss before changing his mind with a shrug. He rolled over, snuffling back into the fluffy cushion as his mind sluggishly rebooted. The previous evening trickling through in flashes. The fight, the walk home, the.. kissing. John bolted upright, pain shooting through his right side immediately. He yelped, a fist flying to cover his mouth for fear of waking Sherlock.

But the bed beside him was cold and empty.

John pulled the covers back slowly, looking down to find his ribs were tender and bruised. Poking and prodding each discolored patch of skin to verify their existence. He peeked beneath the duvet and grinned. He was still naked. John traced his lips with his tongue. Remembering the feel of Sherlock’s mouth on his. The bed grew warmer at the thoughts those lips recalled. The feel and smell of him. John shook his head and sighed. The memories felt real, but his mind was still too fuzzy to be certain. It wouldn’t be the first vivid sex dream he’d had starring his roommate.

_Maybe I blacked out during the fight and imagined the rest?_

John began cautiously poking the back of his skull for any sign of contusion. He closed his eyes and counted down from three, opening them to find he was still awake and still alone. He sighed and settled back to his pillow, teeth grinding in frustration.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Sherlock spoke from the door, two mugs in hand. He raised them with a smile, trying to hide his laugh as John jumped in surprise. “You should keep your movement to a minimum, judging by those bruises.”

“Yeah,” John propped his pillow against the headboard to sit up. Careful to keep the duvet pooled at his waist. He watched Sherlock cross the room and settle one of the mugs to his nightstand before taking a seat at the foot of the bed. Unlike himself, Sherlock was dressed in his usual black skinny jeans, tight vee neck tee and open blazer. His eyes trailed down the pale column of exposed neck, smirking at the trail of fading marks that disappeared beneath the cotton. He snapped his eyes back up from Sherlock’s collar to find flushed cheeks and bright eyes trained on him.

“Happy Christmas Eve, John.”

“Happy Christmas Eve,” John parroted. He didn’t know where to begin idle small chat, how do you even go back to talking about classes and tea after.. after. Instead, he sipped his coffee, thankful it wasn’t scalding. A long silence pooling between them. Until the date registered in John’s mind. “What time is it?” he asked, setting his mug back to the nightstand. John craned his neck to look past Sherlock at the wall clock.

“Ten to noon,” Sherlock answered without looking.

“Shouldn’t you be heading off soon?” John frowned, eyes darting around the room in a mild panic. Debating how he was meant to exit the bed wearing his duvet. He needed a shower but he wasn’t about to strut down the hall to the washroom in his birthday suit. Adrenaline fueled nudity under the cover of darkness was one thing, but this was midday direct sunlight. And he was covered in scars and pudgy bits of pinchable skin. John pulled the duvet up to his neck, feeling exposed.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock looked confused.

“Dinner? Your parents?” John nodded his head towards the open door.

Sherlock squinted between the hall and back, staring as if John had suddenly grown a second head. His mouth opened, a perfect little O, then snapped shut. Brows knitting as his eyes went into a sort of waking REM rapid-blink. Then with a deep breath, his head tilted slightly, as if a new perspective would make sense of John’s assumption. “I..” he began, then looked away. “I’ve decided my holidays are better spent here.”

“Here?”

“With you.”

“Oh,” John couldn’t help the smile that sprung to life and took over his face. He felt bubbly, a nervous giggle bouncing his words. “That’s.. wow. Are you sure? I’m not much for company you know. And your family is sure to miss--”

Sherlock stilled him with a gentle touch to the knee, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“In that case..” John grinned and leant forward until there was just a breath between them. “I’m going to insist you leave,” he kissed Sherlock’s lips even as they began to pout and protest. Sitting back with a mischievous look as he clarified, “for just a moment, Sherlock. So I can get dressed and we can spend the day together.”

“Oh,” Sherlock looked down to where his hand had found its way to John’s thigh. “I don’t mind watching,” he winked and nibbled at John’s bottom lip, licking into him until they were kissing again. Sherlock’s hand wandered further, rubbing and kneading the hard flesh beneath the too thin duvet until he pulled a needy moan from John’s lips. A sound he echoed when John pulled back, panting and holding Sherlock at arm’s length.

“God,” John sucked in a deep breath and looked up, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

“John, I--”

“If you two need a moment we can go for a walk!” Greg’s voice rang through the flat followed by a chorus of poorly muffled giggles.

John snapped up, looking to Sherlock for explanation only to find his roommate in a similar state of distress, growing increasing flushed. John dropped his hold and his voice, “we have company?”

“Shut up, Greg,” Sherlock managed to shout before hiding his face in John’s shoulder. His sigh gave way to a mumbled, “Surprise?”

“Sherlock... What did you do?”

“I may have texted everyone before sunrise that there was an emergency situation and they needed to bring decorations and food so you wouldn’t spend Christmas alone," Sherlock trailed off, looking down at his lap. “Is that.. okay?”

John shook his head, fighting to speak around a blooming smile that hurt his cheeks. He pulled his roommate back in for a hug, squeezing a bit extra to let him know it was quite alright, and sealing the promise with a soft kiss to his forehead, “Perfect.”

Sherlock smiled up at him then turned to the hall to shout, “Okay, we’re coming out.”

“Bit late for that, mate!” Greg called back. This time, everyone broke out laughing.

* * *

“Oooh.. why do they have to make the Christmas specials so creepy?” Harry whinged, hiding her face in Clara’s shoulder. On the TV, fog swirled away to reveal frost covered stone angels as the Doctor jumped behind a crumbling crypt.

“Tradition?” Clara shrugged, slipping arms around her girlfriend’s waist. “Listen, I know I like it. You get all jumpy and clingy and I like you clingy.”

Harry laughed and cuddled in tighter, “well you are the comfiest pillow.” She leaned in for a kiss but jerked back suddenly as a loud midi version of the _TARDIS_ materialization sound rang out from the carpet.

“Your phone, love.” Clara sat forward, taking advantage of the break to stretch and yawn. Sneaking a peek at a cheeky flash of skin as Harry leant over to unplug her mobile from the charger.

“Eeeeeeee~!” Harry shrieked, sitting back up and waving her phone around excitedly as the message alert set off again, “Look!”

“Harry, you spork, hold still! I can’t see.” Clara took hold of Harriet’s hand to keep it steady, pulling the screen down to eye level. Harry squished in closer until they were cheek to cheek staring down at the message together.

John had sent a series of texts.

**Happy Christmas Harry! Send Clara my love.**

The next message was a photo.

John stood before a large tree, decorated in a gaudy amount of mismatched tinsel and baubles and surrounded by friends.

To his left were two well dressed ladies with champagne flutes frozen in celebration between them. One tall, dark haired woman with a devious smile and a sinful hemline, and a smaller girl with a serious face who looked to be scolding them through the lens for staring. To the right was another couple, a thin redhead with the most ridiculous legs leading up to a tacky green velvet mini skirt and hideous green and white striped jumper featuring a snowman patchwork in sequins. Her ensemble was odd, but the firm chin and posture screamed professional dancer. The man beside her was so besotted he’d been unable to tear his eyes away for the photo. But even on a minuscule mobile screen, his grin was evident.

And there in the center, with lips attached to John’s cheek, was the fabled Sherlock Holmes. Just as he’d been described all these months. Tall and lanky with pale milky skin. Dark disheveled curls just the right side of sexy bedhead. He was wearing a frumpy red jumper with a check pattern echoing the blue of John’s. Two reindeer with heart eyes sew on the front of each.

Clara squealed and pointed when she saw them, “Oh my god the jumpers! I love it.”

But the best part for Harriet was John’s smile.

She scrolled down to read the text beneath. Fresh tears pricking her eyes.

**I found my Clara.**

Clara flushed pink, settling back into the sofa with a sigh, “Harry, you romantic, what lies have you been selling your brother?”

“Shut up,” Harry wiped her eyes and nestled back into Clara’s arms, holding up the mobile between them, “They look cute together.”

“Of course they do,” Clara smiled, dropping a soft kiss to the top of Harry’s head, “they’re in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming on this ride with me. I had fun dabbling with a bit of unilock. I hope you had fun.


End file.
